Page 41 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

The word was a violent crack in the air. It was a vicious sound that would have sent people scurrying for fear of being harmed. Fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose, he exhaled a harsh breath out of his lungs.

Get a hold of yourself, Ashurst. You knew it would take time to make her see you’re not like all those bastards who hunted her.

“Time, yes, but I sure as hell didn’t expect it to be so goddamn agonizing,” he snarled at the patronizing voice in his head.

The woman was driving him mad. He’d not even been here forty-eight hours, and already he’d been unable to stop himself from tasting her sweet mouth. Hell, he’d barely managed not to explore her hot core downstairs. The woman responded to his touch with an innocent, yet fiery passion that made him hard as iron.

What the hell was he going to do if the snow didn’t stop? Last night, he’d been hoping the weather would cooperate until Christmas Eve, when he could take Octavia home. If he’d known how difficult it would be to keep his hands off the woman, he would have thought twice about that wish. Hell, he would have thought twice about volunteering to ride through the snowstorm to ensure she was safe.

Downstairs, when Octavia had protested him cradling her in his arms, he’d wanted to thrash every man who had ever made her feel less than the beautiful woman she was. Worse, he’d misjudged how dangerous it was for him to answer Octavia’s plea to kiss her. The moment Atticus had given way to her appeal, every inch of him was in an immediate state of utter agony.

Hot and sweet, her mouth beneath his had pushed him to a point where he was dangling from a cliff. He’d never realized how little control a man possessed trying not to bed a woman his body ached for. The only thing that had saved him was knowing what the morning would bring.

One night of sin with her was too high a price. He wanted thousands of wicked nights of pleasure in her arms. If he’d taken what she’d offered so sweetly a few minutes ago, Atticus knew without a doubt he would have lost her. But her bewilderment and mortification had almost undone him.

Without thinking, he’d forced her to touch him to prove how desperately he wanted to make love to her. It had been an even bigger mistake to show her how rigid and needy his cock had been. Surprise had made her eyes widen in shock the moment Atticus pressed her hand against his painfully hard erection. Her reaction had been immediate and unexpected. Beautiful gray eyes had taken on a slumberous, sultry tilt, and he’d seen the desire flaring to life on her lovely features.

Swallowing hard, Atticus groaned as he remembered why he’d been in her room to begin with. Unbuttoning the back of her dress had been a torturous test of his self-control. One by one, he’d freed the small pearl buttons from their buttonholes, and as each one had slid free, the voice in his head had taunted him with the fact of how easily he could seduce her. When he’d freed the last button at the base of her spine, his fingers had grazed their way over her back of their own volition.

Atticus’s eyes drifted shut as he remembered the soft, silky feel of Octavia’s skin beneath his fingertips. Never had he experienced such a powerful urge to make love to a woman as he had Octavia the instant the back of her dress splayed open. Every cell in his body had pounded with need, demanding he push the dress off her shoulders and taste her. In his head, he imagined her reaction the moment he wrapped an arm around her.

Instinct would make her submit without hesitation, her head falling backward until it rested on his shoulder. Even now, Atticus could feel the softness of her hair against his cheek as he stared down at her sumptuous breasts rising and falling from the excitement building inside her. His cock responded as lust and desire pummeled every inch of him.

In seconds, he had himself in hand and stroked himself as the soft violet scent of her hair drifted into his nostrils. Caught up in his fantasy, Atticus could even smell the scent of her desire. God, he wanted to touch her—coat his fingers and then his cock in her slick heat. Turning her around to face him, he pushed her onto her back.

Gray eyes stared into his, and her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. Groaning, he lowered his head to kiss her. His tongue found its way into her mouth, and he savored her just as he would a delicious dessert. A low moan whispered its way into his mouth. Desire and need echoed in the soft, feminine sound.

Eager to hear her quiet cry of pleasure again, he took his time kissing his way downward until his lips were tasting the top of her lush, full breasts. Fragrant and sweet, his nostrils drank in her intoxicating smell. Hunger surged through him as his lips found the valley between her breasts. The moment his tongue slid into the sweet spot, he emulated what he wanted to do with her between her thighs. He wanted to stroke her and taste her hot, tangy cream running over his tongue before he drove his body into hers. Another quiet moan broke past her lips as she arched her hips upward.

As much as he wanted to slide his body into hers right now, he wanted her hot and wet as she writhed beneath him. He wanted her to ache and crave him with the same raging need his body was demanding he assuage right now. He wanted to hear her sultry voice begging him to satisfy her. His hand catching hers, he taught her how to wrap her fingers snug and firm around his cock.

Pleasure crashed through him as the grip on his hard arousal tightened and stroked him at a steady pace. Pushing her skirt up over a full, voluptuous hip, his fingers found the edge of her core. Hot and wet, she writhed against him as he slid a finger inside her. Christ Jesus, he’d never wanted a woman as badly as he did now. The hand on his cock tightened and increased its pace as he pressed another finger into her tight channel, while his thumb rubbed the small bud just above her core.

A groan rumbled in his chest as he stroked her and applied pressure to a spot inside her that would enhance her pleasure. The moment she cried out his name, she coated his fingers with hot cream. Hunger and lust assaulted him. It tightened his cock even more until the hard, fast strokes around his erection dragged him toward the release he craved.

Harsh and labored, he drank in deep breaths, knowing how tight Octavia would be when he was buried inside her. Fiery strokes pumped furiously against his flesh as his body demanded satisfaction. Seconds later. Atticus sucked in a sharp hiss of air between his teeth. It was followed by a low, hoarse cry of completion as her name blew past his lips, and his cock throbbed hard against his stomach.

A vicious shudder rocked his body as the images of Octavia faded and reality battered his body. Even though he knew she wasn’t beside him, Atticus stretched out his hand, seeking her warm flesh so he could pull her close into his side. Cold air was all he found, and he opened his eyes.

With a harsh oath, he reached for the handkerchief tucked in his trouser pocket and cleaned himself. His fantasy was a temporary physical relief. Rolling off the mattress, he paced the small room. If he’d had any brains, he would have stood up the moment those damn buttons were undone and raced out of her room.

“But you didn’t do that, did you Ashurst? No, you had to touch her.”

Roughly tugging his shirt out of his trousers, Atticus heard a button bounce off the floor, but ignored it. Suppressed violence hardened his muscles, and he yanked a hanger out of the chifforobe. The garment proved unwieldy, and it took two tries to get the shirt into the wardrobe. A loud crack filled the air as he slammed the furniture door shut.

“You didn’t consider the possibility that she might kiss you, did you, you imbecile? And what the fuck were you thinking to show her just how much you wanted her?”

Disgusted by his lack of restraint, he was forced to admit tonight had been a major step backward when it came to his ultimate goal. Atticus’s gut knotted up in fear again as he remembered her cry of pain as she’d fallen. He was grateful a twisted ankle was the only injury she’d suffered.

Atticus stripped, blew out the oil lamp on the bedside table, and slid under the cold sheets. It took him a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally drifted off, it was a restless one.

When morning came, he was feeling just as bedeviled as he had been when he'd crawled into bed last night. Atticus grunted with annoyance. Was this the way it was going to be until he could take Octavia home? He ran a hand over his face in frustration. Bristles brushed over the pads of his fingers as another sound of aggravation escaped him. He needed a shave, and one glance at the wash stand said he needed water.

Goosebumps layering his skin, Atticus dressed, then threw a couple of logs into the fireplace. Satisfied that the fire was burning steadily, Atticus made his way downstairs. When he reached the kitchen, he realized he’d not even bothered to check the weather from his bedroom window. No, that wasn’t true. He’d not looked out for fear of what he’d see. Now, as he stared out the window, his fears were answered. White snowflakes danced in the air to create a shroud over everything.

The day after tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and it was beginning to look more and more like he and Octavia would be spending the holiday together—alone. Muscles taut with apprehension, Atticus knew what he was facing. Worse, a gleeful voice in the back of his head gloated as a surge of lust powered its way down to his cock. Atticus refused to acknowledge the sensation. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the basics. He was hungry, but he’d shave first. Afterward, he’d fix breakfast for him and Octavia.

Less than ten minutes later, he was staring at his reflection while scraping black stubble off his face with his razor. Why was he feeling so disgruntled? Ever since he’d seen the snow still falling, he’d been feeling out of sorts. If the snowstorm continued, Atticus was going to fail at keeping his word to Lord Montford. Instead of spending Christmas Eve with her family, she’d be with him. The razor nicked his skin.